In Memoriam
by riane
Summary: Sarkney. Penance. Pain. Set after Season 5 finale. AU.
1. Awakening

**Title:** In Memoriam

**Author:** riane

**Email: **

**Spoiler/Timeline:** post season 5, AU.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing to do with Alias.

**A/N:** This is my first Alias fanfic in years! Ah, fond memories. Hope you enjoy it. All feedback is appreciated. Thanks to Mnemo for the beta and Jewel21 for the encouragement!

--

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

Not like this. Not after they'd survived everything else – missions, countermissions, bullet wounds, fake deaths, almost-drownings, betrayal, Doomsdays prophecies.

--

'When's Daddy coming home?'

Blinking back tears, she gently touches her daughter's cheek and shakes her head. 'He's not coming home, honey.'

'Oh.' She looks straight at her mother with unnerving stoicism. 'When's the funeral?'

--

Mourning faces, all dressed in black. Some familiar, some not. A sad, loyal collage of a fractured life. Reinvented identities across so many continents.

_After all the aliases, we lose track of who we really are._

Murmured words of comfort, shock.

She smiles numbly, holding her son's hand in her right, and her daughter's in her left.

One of them starts to cry.

--

'Uncle Dixon will take you home and stay with you. I need to be alone with Daddy for a while.'

Serious, dark-eyed and dark-haired. Nodded assent and silent obedience. Dixon dabs at his eyes as his diminutive charges, eyes downcast, follow him to his car.

She closes her eyes and sinks to her knees, inhaling the palpable, cumulative grief of the dispersing crowd.

She looks around. All gone.

Then, and only then, does she begin to howl.

--

She staggers to her feet, tears dripping from her chin, grass beneath her broken fingernails.

'I'm sorry for your loss.'

_It can't be -_

She whips around, instinctively reaching for a gun which isn't there.

'Not to worry, Agent Bristow,' he says, raising his hands, 'I come in peace.' Startling blue eyes, as blue as she'd always remembered.

'What do you think you're doing here?' she snaps. 'You're still on CIA's most wanted list. Even if I've retired, I'm going to have to report sighting you.'

'At your husband's funeral, no doubt,' he adds, tilting his head. He looks as though he hasn't aged a day since she was on active duty. All those lifetimes ago.

'Well?' she asks, still defiant despite her raw grief, 'what do you want? Or is this precisely it?' Trembling, she gestures to the tombstone. 'To end my life, right here? Some sick, symbolic way of saying goodbye to your old-time nemesis?'

He watches her tirade calmly. 'You know that I had nothing to do with your husband's death. And I _am _sorry for his death.'

She steps forward to slap him but he deftly sidesteps, smiling. 'How dare you-'

I came here to warn you,' he says softly, 'to be careful. Now that word has spread of your husband's death, especially under….suspicious…circumstances, your children may be at risk.'

'No,' she gasps, shaking her head, stepping backwards, 'no, no - no, this can't be happening – we left this, we left this – this game long ago. Not my children, not my children-'

He glances at his watch. 'I must be on my way. I'll be in contact, Sydney.' He begins to walk away. 'And Sydney,' he adds, looking over his shoulder, 'I would appreciate it if you kept our meeting between the two of us. For the sake of your children. Besides,' he says quietly, 'I do look forward to seeing you again.'

She doesn't know which surprises her more. His re-emergence in her tattered life, his devastating revelation – or the fact that even after all these years, he still has the audacity to flirt with her.

Even if it's over her husband's grave.

_To be continued_


	2. So it begins

Still stunned, she staggers out of the car and into her home. Jack and Isabella look up at her quietly from their books. Their tear-stained cheeks need drying, yet all she can think about are Sark's parting words.

'Syd?' Dixon rises to his feet. 'Is everything alright?'

She swallows, nodding. 'I-I'm fine, I just – I just need to sit down.'

He gets her some water, then notices the unfortunate state of her hands. He shakes his head, sighing.

'Isabella, can you please get me the first aid kit?'

She stands up, ramrod straight, 'Yes, Uncle Dixon.'

He cleans out the blood, dirt and grass stains from her trembling hands.

'Syd,' he whispers, ' I…I know what it's like to lose a spouse. No – let me finish. It hurts. It hurts like hell – it hurts so much you don't imagine the pain could ever go away. Then one day, it hurts a little less. And a little less.' He smiles sadly. 'It never goes away, the pain, but I'd rather it stay than disappear…along with the memory of her.'

Isabella and Jack are listening.

'Uncle Dixon,' Jack asks, 'what about losing a dad?' Tears crowd his big brown eyes, and Sydney sighs softly, gathering her weeping son into her arms.

'Honey. I'm so sorry.'

Dixon ruffles his hair. 'Losing a dad is hard too, Jack. But I'm here for you, buddy. I'm here for you.'

--

Isabella watches quietly and lets her mother hold her too.

--

It's been a long time since she's had to meet handsome assassins in shady hotels. Part of her wonders if she secretly enjoys it. The thrill, the rush. That delicious anticipation. The knowledge that the difference between life and death lies on the sliver of a knife. All those thing that drew her to the trade to begin with.

_Nope. Just so tired I could sleep. _

--

'Why are you helping me?' she asks softly, watching him sit languidly in his chair.

'Simply returning a favour,' he shrugs. 'Your husband could have ended my life many years ago, but didn't.'

Part of her wants to thank him, but a mixture of pride, suspicion and exhaustion holds her back. She nods warily instead.

'The CIA doesn't think anything's wrong.' She paces the room- a _nondescript hotel room, again _- and rubs her temples. 'It was just an accident. I shouldn't read too much into it. Continue on with life.'

She looks at him with haunted eyes. 'I can't, Sark. And I won't. Not with Isabella and Jack – not with him gone. Not with the knowledge that everything doesn't add up.'

He sighs. 'Sydney, until you – we – get to the bottom of this, that's precisely what you need to do. Get on with life. Send your children to school. Go to work. Do not, under any circumstances, let your grief get the better of you.'

She shakes her head stubbornly. 'I can't. There could be someone out there, waiting to hurt them. I've lost my husband. I can't lose them too.'

He arches an eyebrow. 'Don't you think it would draw unnecessary attention if you withdrew your children from school? Quit your job? Went into hiding?'

Frowning, she looks away, knowing the answer but refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right.

'Unhappy, are we, Sydney?' She watches him smile with his usual charm. Except it's not quite having the same effect. Really.

She rolls her eyes. 'Stay on topic, Sark.'

He continues, his voice crisp and sure. 'The element of surprise is your only advantage at this point. Assuming there is something to be concerned about – which I am _certain _there is – now is the time to plan out our next move.'

Motioning to the sheets he spreads out on the table, he lists a few different strategies. All plausible, some harder to maneuver than others. Each with varying degrees of uprooting and heartache. All lead to basic survival.

'How can I trust you?' she asks, finally, after perusing the mission specs.

He smiles coolly. 'You can't. But you have no other option, do you, Sydney?'

_Touche._

'This is more than returning the favour, isn't it?'

His lips curl into a small smile. 'Perhaps.'

…_for his bloodstained hands._

He bids her a polite farewell after giving her details of their next meeting.

She looks out into the cold darkness of the night.

_What about my own?_

--


End file.
